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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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20rush
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1990-10-14
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57 lines
The Gold Rush
(JULY 6, 1925)
The Gold Rush. All the notables for miles around had gathered in
the Egyptian Theatre to see Charles S. Chaplin in The Gold Rush-the
picture 9,000 feet long which has taken him two years to make and
of which he had remarked: "This is the picture I want to be
remembered by," needless of the fact that his press agent was
listening.
On the screen, a shadow flickered--a shadow with feet like
box-cars and a smile like the last soliloquy of Hamlet. He was a
tenderfoot. the date was the year of Our Lord 1896--a period in
which gentlemen were proud to spend several thousand dollars of
lousy paper money to dig up a couple of ounces of mica in the
Klondike....A blizzard. A straggling company of raged montebanks
passing through a wintry defile; Chilkoot Pass. Chaplin left behind
in the dash for gold, blown to the door of a lonely cabin. Does
the hearty Westerner within open his door, warm the tattered
stranger with a glass of whiskey? No; he snarls through a crack in
the window; Chilly Chaplin reels off in the storm...
The violinists in the Egyptian Theatre played another
tune...This is a dance hall...Old stuff about an endearing note
which Chaplin receives by mistake...Out to make his pile so that
he can wed the Klondike Kitty Kelly...More prospectors...The big
strike; the search for the girl, the scene on board the ocean liner
in which the stunted erstwhile prospector, now in purple and fine
sable, lounges on the first cabin, his heart aswoon for a vanished
barmaid...while down in the steerage the girl tosses on her
midnight pallet, wishing for her hobo-brummel.
An epic in comedy, written, directed, acted by a man who
understands the cinema is a medium of high art only because it can
be used, as can no other medium to express the illimitable
diversity of life.
His first efforts to be funny in celluloid were dismal. Keystone
directors feared that he was overpaid, offered to cancel the
contract. Chaplin told Roscoe Arbuckle, the now deposed cinema
clown, that he needed a pair of shoes. Arbuckle tossed him a pair
of his own enormous brogues. "There you are, man," he said,
"Perfect fit!" Chaplin put them on, cocked his battered derby over
his ear, twisted the ends of his prim mustache. His face was very
sad. He attempted a jaunty walk which became, inevitably, a
heart-breaking waddle. He put his hand on the seat of his trousers,
spun on his heel. Arbuckle told him that he was almost funny. Such
as the research that led him to "create a figure that would be a
living satire on every human vanity."
In three months, the U.S. raved; in six, England shrieked; in a
year his hat, feet, waddle and harassed, insouciant smirk were
familiar to South Sea Islanders who pasted his picture on the walls
of their bath-houses; to lamas in Tibet who chucked each other in
the ribs at a mention of his name; to bushwackers, coolies,
Cossacks, Slavs, Nordics.